


Rationing

by coolbyrne



Category: NCIS
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:54:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23781952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coolbyrne/pseuds/coolbyrne
Summary: Gibbs finds a box that brings back old memories, but creates some new ones. (May be read as an episode extension for "The Arizona", s17e20)
Relationships: Jethro Gibbs/Jacqueline "Jack" Sloane
Comments: 35
Kudos: 103





	Rationing

**Author's Note:**

> There are quite a few notes to go with this story! 
> 
> First, a P-38 is a small foldable can opener given to soldiers when rations came in cans.  
> https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/d/dd/P-38_Can_Opener.jpg
> 
> Second, WWII C-rations came in 2 cans per meal: a B-Unit and an M-Unit. 'B' for bread and 'M' for meat. So breakfast got a B-Unit and an M-Unit. Dinner (lunch) the same, and Supper as well. You can check out the menus here:  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/C-ration#%22M%22_Unit
> 
> Third, the key that opens the cans (it was attached to the opposite end of the contents):  
> http://www.kration.info/_Media/chopped-ham-and-egg-2_med_hr.jpeg
> 
> Fourth, it's totally true that both Gibbs (1990-1991) and Jack (1995) would have had the exact same MRE menu. Menu #10. She just would've gotten an extra dessert and some candy.  
> https://www.mreinfo.com/mres/mre-menus/mre-menus-1990-1991/  
> https://www.mreinfo.com/mres/mre-menus/mre-menus-1995/
> 
> Fifth, the Tobasco sauce bottle, which was disappointingly replaced by the packet in 2012:  
> https://preview.redd.it/yqbjh7w7keb41.jpg?width=960&crop=smart&auto=webp&s=53988556df5f1f77ee42d9a34d67c3439767c2b0
> 
> Sixth, so much of this information actually came from the guy I have Jack saying she watches on Youtube.  
> https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC2I6Et1JkidnnbWgJFiMeHA
> 
> I played around with Gibbs smoking. While I felt he probably smoked in Kuwait if only to pass the time, I figured those days were long, long gone. Jack, on the other hand, may have smoked even before joining the Army, and I thought it was a reasonable idea to have her at least try the cigarette here.

…..

She came up the short walkway to his house just as he was handing some money over to a young man in a donation company T-shirt and cap that matched the truck along the sidewalk. She smiled at him as he passed, then flashed a smile at Gibbs who stood at the top of the steps. 

“You’re not moving, are you?” she asked brightly.

He shook his head even though they both knew the question was obvious. “Just gettin’ rid of some things.”

Her smile dropped. “You didn't get rid of any of your Marine hoodies, did you? Me and Bishop wanted to go through them.” His eyes narrowed and his lips pressed together until she burst out laughing.

“You comin’ in or not?” He didn’t wait for an answer.

“Okay, okay,” she replied, following behind and closing the door. Seeing the small stack of boxes in the entranceway and another in his living room, she silently asked another question with a raised eyebrow.

“Cleanin’ the basement. Someone told me it was ‘awfully cluttered for a Marine’.”

She grinned at his quote and his scowl. Shrugging, she sat on one end of the couch and said, “It was just an observation. Casual conversation.” His grunt told her what he thought of it. “So what are you going to do with these?” she asked, looking at the stray boxes. 

“Mostly for Ducky,” he said. “Old books and NCIS manuals. Some photos of old agents.”

“Oh, he’ll love that,” she smiled. “And how about that?” 

Her head tilted to a metal box beside the coffee table. It was about the size of a small suitcase, its hinges slightly rusted, the lock looking like it had seen better days. It clearly meant something to him, because his eyes ran over it, his blues going soft.

“Grab a coupla beers, would ya?” he asked, not taking his eyes off the box. 

“Sure.” She was gone and back in an instant, with two bottles in one hand and a dish towel in the other. 

He took the bottle and the towel with a grateful nod, then wiped the box top with several strokes that Jack couldn’t determine were reverence or hesitation. A small metal I.D tag soldered to the lid was revealed.

“‘Leroy Jethro Gibbs’,” she whispered. “It’s yours.”

“I got his box downstairs when he died, but Dad started this for me when I was a kid. Scraps of things he never wanted to talk about. Never understood it then.”

She watched his hand settle on the box. “We sure do now, huh?”

He looked up. “We sure do.”

“Second World War?” she asked.

“Yep. Pilot.”

“Ouch,” she smiled. “Bet that stung when you walked in with your Navy blues on.”

He couldn’t help but smile, too. His knife blade made easy work of the lock and the hinges creaked.

“When’s the last time you opened this, do you think?”

He moved a pillow, quietly inviting her to sit beside him. “Fifty years ago?”

“So it really is a time capsule. Like your dad’s. Whattya got in there?”

Right on top, a picture looked back. Gently lifting it, Gibbs tilted it in the afternoon light that came in over his shoulder from the window. Two faces smiled from the black and white image.

“Mom and Dad’s wedding photo.”

She leaned into his arm and squeezed his bicep. “Wow. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it? That is one handsome man. And your mother was beautiful.”

Ignoring her easy going compliment, he agreed with the latter. “She was.”

He had never spoken about his mother and rarely said anything about his father, and she knew there would be other times to open up those stories, if he ever wanted to tell them. Instead, she gently nudged him. “Keep going.”

There were other things, bits of newspaper commemorating the Allies, a belt buckle from his dad’s uniform, a ribbon his mother wore while the war went on. Gibbs’ recollection stopped when he took out a small compass.

“What’s that?” Jack asked.

Gibbs frowned, flipping it back and forth in his palm. “I don’t know.” Frustrated at the lack of information but also by the memories, he tossed it back into the box. “I don’t know why he gave me this.”

She recognized his response, an immediate wall building that took place whenever he was confronted by things he would rather bury. She recognized it because she did the same. “You know why- you said it yourself.” His reply was a sigh and she tugged at his sleeve. “I know it makes it harder now, but it was the only thing he could think of doing then.” Daringly going out on a limb, she suggested, “You might want to do the same thing, but maybe write down why they’re important to you.”

His frown didn’t dissipate. “What are you talkin’ about?”

“I mean, he’s not the only one who had another life so few know about. Are you telling me you don’t have your own box of stuff you kept from Panama? Kuwait?” His eye roll said it all. “Right. So you need to figure out who gets what and tell them why.”

“I got no one to give ‘em to.”

“Bullshit.” Her rare epithet made him pull back. “Well, don’t be an ass. You’ve got at least 3 people at work who would love to have them.”

“They don’t wanna know about the war, Jack.”

“No, but they want to know about you.” Her voice softened. “You don’t think Bishop wouldn’t want to have your name patch or want you to show her how to use your polish kit? Think Tim wouldn’t be proud to have your tags? Hell, did you see how into learning about Pearl Harbor Torres got after Joe quizzed him? Now imagine sitting down with him and telling him about how you and your squad took the wheels off your CO’s truck and buried them in the desert.” His mouth twitched. “Yeah, I thought so. We all did it, Gibbs. Or something like it. They’re not all bad stories.”

He didn’t reply but she knew he was taking her words and letting them roam around his head for a while, and that was enough for her. Drawing her attention back to the box, she squinted. “Oh, my god. Is that what I think it is?”

He reached in, held up the small can opener and laughed 

“P-38,” they said in unison.

“Did you have one of those?” she asked. “We were into tear packs by the time I enlisted.”

Shaking his head, he said, “No. I think cans got phased out in the 80s.” He grinned. “I took one with me, though. Hung it on my tags. Thought I was badass.”

Unable to resist, she brushed her fingertips through his military cut. “You _are_ badass. Didn’t need a P-38 to tell me that.” She tapped an ear that had suddenly gotten red. Deciding to let him off the hook, she mused, “How much of a pain in the ass were those C-rations back then, do you think?”

“Wanna find out?” From the very bottom of the box, he pulled out a shiny metal can. 

“You are kidding me!” 

She literally bounced on the cushion and he couldn’t help but get caught up in her excitement. 

“B-Unit,” he said, tapping the distinction stamped on one end. Squinting at the embossment pressed in the middle of the lid, he said, “Coffee.”

“It’s the breakfast unit.”

“Yep. One of.” He tentatively glanced into the box and sniffed. 

“Looking for the M-Unit?” she asked, nose wrinkled, but with a smile spread across her

“Figure we’re safe.” While the dreaded meat can wasn’t in the box, he did pull out a package made from butcher’s paper.

“And the accessory kit!”

He narrowed his eyes. “You know a hell of a lot about World War II MREs, Lieutenant.”

“I follow this guy on Youtube,” she clapped. “He eats them. Like, MREs from all decades.” Seeing his blank expression, she said, “I know! I didn’t want to eat them when we got them, nevermind 20 years later.”

“Got that right.” He handed her his knife and the kit. “You want the honours?”

She took both offerings but hesitated. “Are you sure you want to open this? You sure you want _me_ to do it?”

Her excitement was tempered by her respect for him and it hit him square in the chest. Daringly, as she had done, he tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Can’t think of anyone else I’d rather have.” Now it was her turn to blush and he granted her the same leeway by changing the subject. “Unless you wanna try opening the can.”

She appreciated his quiet confession and his misdirection. “No way.”

“It’s got the key,” he said, showing her the can’s bottom.

It wasn’t enough to make her change her mind. “That’s going to take you 800 turns and give you Carpal Tunnel Syndrome,” she said. “I’ll do the pack, thank you very much. In the meantime, let me grab something.”

He watched her disappear into the kitchen and privately admitted she wasn’t wrong about the can. It took him three tries to get the end of the metal strip through the little key’s eye hole, and he was still twisting it around the can when she came back with 2 mugs and a spoon. She cleared off the coffee table save for his metal box, and he could see the steam waft from the cups. 

“Hell yeah we’re drinking the coffee, Cowboy. If you ever get the can open.” His scowl only made her smile more. Sitting by his side again, she picked up the pack and the knife, and with only a slight pause, she carefully cut a slit across the top. “This- this is incredible, Gibbs. Thank you.” Spilling the contents onto the table, she arranged everything neatly and said the items out loud. “A book of matches. A 2-pack of Wrigley’s gum. Twelve water purifier tablets in the smallest bottle I’ve ever seen. Except maybe the Tobasco bottles we got in our MREs.”

He nodded at the memory, long forgotten until she reminded him. “I think I still got one or two of those kickin’ around.”

“So tiny!” Continuing on, she lifted up a pack, pristine and perfect, like the day it was put in the rations. “One pack of Waldorf toilet paper. Wow. And the piece de resistance- 9 Chesterfield cigarettes.”

With the container finally open, he lifted the jagged lid and setting his box on the floor, placed the can on the table and rested his elbows on his knees. He seemed to see it in a new light and a calmness fell over him. Nudging Jack with his elbow, he pointed at the can. 

“You might as well keep goin’.”

“Really?”

“I see the coffee on top. Lemme make it while you roll call the contents.”

“Ha ha, very funny. Here’s your coffee.” She took the time to examine the small tin. “I’ve never seen it in anything other than a pack.” 

He carefully edged his knife tip under the lid, breaking the seal that had remained intact for over 70 years. Balancing the small container in his palm, he removed the top and they both marvelled at the fine grain.

“You don’t get it like that anymore, either,” he said, spooning 2 heaps into each cup. The aroma was instantaneous. “Well?” he encouraged.

“Right. Three sugar cubes,” she said, handing him all three with a distinctive look at her coffee. “Three hard candies.” She brought one up to her nose. “Butterscotch maybe? And five biscuits.” One also made its way to her nose before she bit into it, much to Gibbs’ startled surprise. “I see that guy eat this stuff all the time,” she shrugged. “It’s not moldy or anything. Better than the Tuna and Noodles in my MRE, I’ll tell you that.”

His surprise gave way to a smile. “Menu 10?”

“Yes! Oh my God, you had it, too?” She slapped his arm. “I never checked the year on mine; it was probably carried over from ‘91.”

He dropped the 3 sugar cubes into her coffee and stirred until the hot water dissolved the grains. Feeling like he should say something but not knowing exactly what, he was glad when Jack lifted her cup and said, “To old memories. And new. And to godawful MREs, no matter what the decade.”

He touched her mug with his and took a drink. It was black and strong and bittersweet. “Thanks, Dad,” he whispered, covering up his soft words by biting into one of the biscuits.

“You just waited long enough to see if I was okay,” she playfully accused.

“Yep.” Tilting the biscuit back and forth under his scrutiny, he said, “These aren’t bad.”

“Well, there’s only one more thing to do.” 

Before he could ask, she picked up the cigarette pack and carefully pulled back the cellophane. Patiently, she pulled at one of the cigarettes until it was out of its tightly packed bundle. Then, like the candy and the biscuit, she brought it up to her nose and inhaled deeply. Her eyes closed, allowing her sense of smell to take it all in. He found himself mesmerized. 

“That’s nice,” she murmured. Placing the end between her lips, she dry pulled and concurred with her original assessment. She opened her eyes and reached for the matches, smirking at his raised eyebrow. “Want to hear one good thing about being a POW for 9 months?” Her words were light and he encouraged her with a head tilt. “Helped me quit smoking.” The match struck the paper and lit on the first try. A faint sulphur smell wafted between them, curling with the coffee. “I haven’t had one of these since.” 

The flame hit the tobacco and he was sure watching her pull in the first drag was the sexiest thing he’d seen in forever.

She exhaled away from him and used her thumb and ring finger to get a small piece of tobacco from the tip of her tongue. “No filter. That’s a first for me.” She shook her head and took another pull, savouring the second as much as the first. Exhaling again, she lamented, “Too bad these things are as dry as tinder.”

“You got 8 left,” he said.

The fact he wasn’t just sharing the memory with her but the momento flooded her with warmth. “No, you should have them.”

“Tryin’ to peer pressure me into smoking?”

She smiled at his deflection. “I have a hard time believing anyone could make you do anything you didn’t want to do.”

He suspected they both knew that wasn’t true when it came to her, but rather than say it out loud, he reached across, took the cigarette from her hand and surprised her by taking a deep pull. It lasted for all of 4 seconds before he began choking. 

Between her laughter, she struck his back between his shoulder blades while he bent forward.

“Jesus!” he choked out. “Weren’t this strong in Kuwait.”

“Someone smoked the cheap local cigarettes.”

Catching his breath, he wheezed, “Didn’t want to trade my Tobasco for Camels.”

His admission only made her laugh more. Pinching off the lit end and putting it safely on the butcher’s paper, she said, “As sexy as the image is of you smoking in the desert sunset, it’s probably a good thing we won’t need to share a cigarette again.” The sly connotations that came with smoking clearly crossed his mind because his smirk was stronger than his cough, and she slapped him again, but it was his arm instead of his back. “Very funny. Well, the good news is, with your age and my bad back, 8 cigarettes might be enough.” His expression was worth the hard shoulder nudge she got in return. Her laughter gently drifting away and his feigned offense fading with it, she looked down at the contents on the table. “I kind of feel bad for opening it,” she admitted. “It’s such a time capsule.”

He shrugged. “Good thing I got a case downstairs.”

“What?”

He took another drink from the mug, humming his appreciation at the coffee’s strength. “Dad had a case in the garage. Forgot I had it.”

“Because it was in your cluttered basement?”

The playful reminder of why they were there in the first place got her another narrowed stare, but it didn’t last long. “A 12-case comes with 2 accessory packs.”

She quickly caught on. “So 18 more cigarettes, huh? Plus the 8 we’ve got?” She moved in closer, unabashedly curling around his arm. “I think my back can take it.”

The shift in the tone of the conversation and the direction everything was suddenly going briefly caught him off guard, but it only took him a second to reply.

“Well, I’m not gettin’ any younger, Sloane.”

…..

-end


End file.
